Winter Sundays feel particularly apocalyptic 

The weekend spent narrating each terrifying angel

There’s a time we could have gone back but that time has passed 

Wearing selfsame clothes until pilled and threadbare 

One day my heel stuck to the wooden floor 

A coin-sized hole let the feeling in 

Cold and unfamiliar like a kiss 

Or a pebble stuck in the heel of the shoe 

This is what you’ve become to me and me to you 

The cut-out more real than the empty space

There was a time we could have tried again 

Which we did for a while and then we didn’t

An omnipresent struggle with objectivity 

Putting on last winter’s coat and the winter before to find

The gloves that, missing all this time, no longer fit

The last of intimacy teased out 

as if water from the stone, obstinate